‘You’re leaving?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Her villa has been sold. We’re getting married.’
‘Heavens above,’ said Rosamund.
‘It’s a shock?’ said Edward.
‘A shock? No, a lovely surprise. Edward, really, how pleased I am for you. Be very happy, my dear. But such deep waters – how intriguing.’
‘And you and Franz?’ said Edward.
‘Good heavens, no, nothing so romantic,’ smiled Rosamund. ‘We’re friends, that’s all. I could never make a husband of him. He’s far too set in his ways. Underneath that Prussian exterior, he’s not without charm, but a husband? No, I think not. I’ll probably marry my gardener. That will be the only real way of making my garden as much my own as his. Tell me more about your intriguing countess, whom you’ve never introduced to me.’
Edward talked guardedly to her over the breakfast coffee.
Katerina said coldly, ‘You’re mistaken, quite mistaken, Colonel Brecht – if that’s who you really are.’
‘Your Highness,’ said Colonel Brecht, no longer a stiff and awkward man, but smooth and self-confident, ‘it’s taken me a considerable time to convince myself. I am, however, now fully convinced.’
‘Then you’re deluding yourself. I am not Your Highness.’ Katerina stood tall and straight-backed. ‘Please leave.’
‘A rumour reached us,’ said the colonel, ‘and the Emperor—’
‘He’s no longer the Emperor.’
‘He commissioned me to investigate. It hasn’t been easy. I’m His Imperial Majesty’s aide-de-camp, not a spy. I caught sight of you on one day only. Your protector appeared with a rifle, and I’ve never seen a man more determined. Fortunately, I managed to conceal myself, and it was the wandering gardener of this hotel who was unlucky enough to have a shot fired at him. I’d glimpsed you. Subsequently, still concealed, I watched your unexpected meeting with Edward Somers, though I wasn’t close enough to be positive about you. But since then enough has happened to tell me the Bolsheviks had also heard that rumour. They want you, dead or alive, Your Highness.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Katerina. The confrontation, taking place in her room, and in German, was cold on the one hand, quietly determined on the other. ‘I am a Bulgarian exile.’
‘Seeing you now,’ said the colonel, ‘I’m sure I’m making no mistake. I’m here to offer you the protection of the Kaiser Wilhelm, to escort you to Holland—’
‘Stop!’ Katerina’s eyes flashed. ‘Never. Never. Do you dare to come here and offer me the protection of a man responsible for sending Lenin to Russia, responsible by that act for the desolation of Russia and the destruction of so many kings and emperors? And what protection do I need? I am Katerina Pyotrovna, Countess of Varna. That is all I am.’
‘I beg you to listen,’ said the colonel, more convinced than ever. ‘In no circumstances will anything but complete secrecy and security be maintained. I swear to you that the Emperor was not himself responsible for putting Lenin on that train, that he did all he could to intercede when your family was in captivity.’
‘My family has never been in captivity,’ said Katerina firmly. ‘We have only been refugees, like many other people of Europe. I repeat, Colonel Brecht, I am not who you think I am. Please go.’
‘I gave my word to the Emperor to do all I could to find you, to do all I could to persuade you. His life now is quiet and undisturbed, as yours will be. The Emperor’s one concern is to find all of you, to redeem any mistakes he may have made, and to offer his love and care.’
‘Colonel Brecht,’ said Katerina, ‘you are a sincere man, I feel, but a mistaken one. I ask you, earnestly, to withdraw from any further effort or investigation. If you’ll be so kind as to leave, if you’ll report to the Emperor that I’m not the one the rumour said I might be, then I’ll regard you as a friend. Do this for me. Do this for my peace of mind, and my happiness. Do you have any assistants?’
‘One,’ said Colonel Brecht. ‘A White Russian, who was to help me identify you. But he vanished. I think he was seen by Bolshevik agents.’ He regarded her a little sadly. She was very proud, very fearless, and extraordinarily beautiful. There was mystery there, and strange wistfulness. He made his decision. ‘Forgive me, Countess, I have indeed made a mistake. My apologies for intruding on you.’
‘You’re forgiven,’ said Katerina.
The colonel’s smile was rueful.
‘I shan’t be leaving immediately,’ he said, ‘I’ve an appointment with a charming English lady, with whom I’m doing my miserable best not to get too involved. I shall stay a few more days. Countess, let me wish you happiness, and many years of peace. I shall report that the Countess of Varna was a lady so like another in her looks and courage that the rumour was a credible one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Katerina. She put out her hand. The colonel took it, bowed low and kissed her fingertips.
‘Forgive me,’ he said again, and left.
Katerina, a little emotional, sat down. One more small battle had been won. Edward arrived a few minutes later. She came quickly to her feet and swept herself into his arms.
‘Edward – oh, I’m so glad to see you.’
‘You did see me, just before breakfast.’
‘Yes. I know. But. Oh, you see,’ she said, ‘every meeting is an excitement to me. To be close to you is to feel secure.’
‘Watch out for my tottery moments,’ said Edward.
‘Oh, together we’ll be invincible, my darling – yes, invincible. You will see.’ Katerina kissed him warmly.
‘You realize we must go as soon as we can after the inquest?’ said Edward. ‘The events here, the deaths, are going to have repercussions, my sweet. Your enemies will be convinced that you are who you are.’
‘I am Katerina, only Katerina.’ But she hid her face against his shoulder. ‘Except that now I’m your Katerina.’
‘Yes,’ said Edward quietly. ‘This afternoon, would you care to drive into Nice with me and help me apply for a special marriage licence?’
‘Oh, dearest, dearest Edward.’ She hugged him. She kissed him. ‘Yes – yes – that will make me so happy.’
When they returned from Nice at five o’clock, the special licence obtained, Inspector Cartier had been and gone. He had, Celeste informed them, asked questions only of Madame Knight, Colonel Brecht and herself, together with Mama, and then searched Mademoiselle Dupont’s room. He had taken her passport and some papers away. He had not expressed the most faint wish to interview either the countess or Edward.
‘The most faint wish?’ smiled Katerina.
‘That is really no wish at all,’ said Celeste.
‘I had a wish,’ said Katerina, ‘a very dear wish. Concerning Edward. Celeste, we have a licence and are to be married in Nice in seven days.’
‘Then we must leave, little angel,’ said Edward.
Celeste was enchanted, overwhelmed. She was also sad. She was going to lose them.
At the inquest in La Roche, with Edward and Celeste present, Katerina stood up to answer every question quietly and without a tremor. In a grey costume, with hat and veil, she was impressive. Edward, watching her and listening to her, was in new wonder and fascination. Her demeanour, her poise and her calmness signified, to him, an inherited regality. She did not once falter, though he knew that beneath her composure she was suffering.
In the regrettable absence of the chief witness, one Mademoiselle Dupont, the coroner accepted her testimony as recorded by Inspector Cartier, and returned the only verdict possible. Death by accident or suicide.
Behind her veil, Katerina’s eyes misted for the last time in grief for the man who had sacrificed not only his freedom, but his life, for her. Then Edward and Celeste took her back to the hotel.
Three days later, after breakfast, her packing finished, she greeted Edward’s entry with an emotional kiss.
‘That is for you, my darling,’ she said, ‘and for my wedding day.’
> ‘Everything ready?’ said Edward, lightness covering his own emotions.
‘My luggage is ready, and I am ready. Oh, you don’t know how ready I am. You have no idea what you’re doing for me, how wonderful it is for me. Oh, we must call on Anna and Sandro. They’ve been so devoted, and must join us when we’re settled. You’ll arrange that, won’t you?’
‘Everything, Katerina, my precious, will be just as you want. Always.’
Madame Michel came to say goodbye to them. She wept a little. They promised to write. She embraced Edward. She pressed Katerina’s hands.
‘God will keep you,’ she said. ‘But Celeste will miss you both, so much.’
Celeste arrived the moment her mother had gone.
‘Madame – Edward – oh, I’m happy for you, truly, but so sad,’ she said. ‘You see, I didn’t think about how it would take you away from me.’
‘Listen, sweetest angel,’ said Edward. ‘Each year you’ll take a holiday. Your mama will allow this, of course she will, and you’ll spend it with us. I’ll arrange it, I’ll write—’
‘We shall both write, oh, very often,’ said Katerina.
‘And each year I may really come and stay with you?’ said Celeste.
‘Each year, Celeste, we shall all spend time together,’ said Edward.
‘That will make me very happy,’ said Celeste. ‘Madame—’
‘No, I am Katerina, my brave one. Always to you I am Katerina.’
‘I’d like to say how glad I am Edward is to marry you,’ said Celeste. ‘It’s saved him the terrible ordeal of having to marry me.’
It was said with a bright smile, but Katerina saw the sadness there, and the love. Celeste had no father. The war had taken him when she was an infant. Edward had filled that role for her.
‘Celeste, always we shall think of you,’ said Katerina gently, ‘always.’
‘You must go, or I shall cry,’ said Celeste.
‘Dearest girl,’ said Edward, and kissed her. Celeste clung.
‘Oh, I have so much love for you both,’ she whispered. ‘Write to me, please write, when you’re settled.’
‘Goodbye, my sweet,’ said Katerina, ‘you are precious to us, you have given us to each other.’
Celeste stood in the road outside the hotel, with her mother and Jacques. They waved goodbye. Edward and Katerina turned in the Bentley. They waved, they called. Celeste watched them disappear.
‘Oh, Mama,’ she said, ‘how can one be so happy for them and so miserable for oneself? I am breaking my heart.’
‘There, my infant, such a gentle one you are,’ said Madame Michel, ‘and blessed of God.’
They motored towards Nice. They had not liked saying goodbye to Celeste, but they knew they could stay no longer in La Roche. Edward was sure that the people out of Katerina’s past, those who menaced her, would close in on her, and Katerina did not argue. She had placed herself in Edward’s hands.
They had called at the Villa d’Azur, where Katerina spoke at length to Anna and Sandro. Sandro said nothing about a man called Valery. He only said, as Katerina made her departure, ‘Boris Sergeyovich lies in peace now.’
Nice and the wedding ceremony lay ahead. Katerina, swamped by every kind of emotion, said, ‘It’s so sad to have left Celeste.’
‘We shall part from Celeste from time to time,’ said Edward, ‘but never for good.’
‘No, never. Edward, thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For driving me now to our wedding. Where do we go then, where are we to settle?’
‘I’ve thought and thought,’ said Edward. ‘Katerina, do you know the Balearics, a group of islands off Spain?’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Katerina, the autumn air fresh around her hat and veil, ‘but I’ve never been there.’
‘There’s a very small one called Formentera. I went there once, before the war. It’s the quietest place on earth. A little steamer puts in once a week from Ibiza, that’s all. If you like it, we’ll have a villa built there, and a garden. It will suit my chest. And it will give you peace, Katerina, and freedom from worry, I swear.’
‘If you like it, then I shall like it,’ said Katerina. ‘Let us go there at once, if not immediately.’
They laughed then. They knew Celeste would have laughed too.
‘We’ve many things to arrange,’ said Edward, driving into the light of the ascending sun. ‘First, we must buy the ring in Nice.’
‘Yes, my darling. I love you. And one day, after we’re married, I will tell you about my family of loved ones, perhaps.’
‘I know about your family of loved ones,’ said Edward.
Her heart dissolved.
‘Edward?’
‘I know who you are, Katerina Pyotrovna.’
The Bentley carried them forward, into the future, into all the years ahead.
Chapter Eighteen
The afternoon sun was sinking.
‘Señora?’ said Kate. She felt so emotional. The story had taken three afternoons to tell, and there had been moments when the gentle voice had become silent, the narrative lost for a while. And there had been so much that Kate had had to guess at, or imagine. There had been so much that only Edward or Celeste could have told. Kate filled in the voids for herself.
It was over now, the story, and the dreams had come again, putting soft shadows on the aged face.
Who was she really, Kate wondered. She had not once said she was other than Katerina Pyotrovna. And for over fifty years she had merely been Mrs Edward Somers. Yet the story itself, with its suggestions and implications, told Kate she might be far more than she had ever said.
‘Señora?’
Katerina looked at the girl, the girl so like Celeste, with blue eyes so like other eyes.
‘They are all gone now, my sweet.’ The gentle voice was tired. ‘All of them. My darling Edward, my bright Celeste and my family of loved ones. But you are here, Kate, and you have my name. You too are a Katerina.’
‘Señora, is that what Edward – Mr Somers – called you? Is that really your name?’
Katerina smiled.
‘Sometimes he called me Katerina, and sometimes another name. Kate, the world is so beautiful, yet so sad. The ugly is worshipped in place of the good. Love, which is the whole reason for our existence, is treated as casually as a toy. Faithfulness is derided, indulgence deified. Kate, that’s very sad, isn’t it?’
Kate looked into the eyes which had seen so much and which dreamed so much.
‘Señora, I don’t think it’s as sad as all that, really I don’t,’ she said. ‘Señora, I love you very much.’
The delicacy of the fine face became warm. A slender hand touched the girl’s hair and stroked it.
‘But I’m so old, Kate, so very old.’
‘You’re beautiful,’ said Kate. ‘I should think – well, I should think it was easy for Edward to tell you so, always.’
‘Oh, yes, he made his disarming little speeches,’ said Katerina.
Maria came out to take a look, satisfied herself that the Señora was as well off as she could be with Kate, and went back to the kitchen.
‘Señora, what happened to Celeste? Does she come here sometimes?’ Kate was still absorbed. ‘I’d so like to meet her, I really would.’
Katerina turned her eyes on the garden. She felt tired, but could not bring herself to part with the girl.
‘Celeste was the bravest of the brave, Kate. It was the other war, the dreadful war. When the Germans invaded France, Celeste was in Paris. She wrote us from there. It was the last letter we ever received from her. In it, she sent us her faithful love. She fought for France, in what I think was called the Maquis. And in 1942, they caught her and shot her. She gave her life for her country. Celeste always gave. She was still so young. Thirty, Kate, only thirty. The world was robbed of her bright courage. Each year she stayed with us, in May and October. I hear them sometimes, Celeste and Edward. That is special to the aged, Kate, the mo
ments when sweet memories come to life. Today is Edward’s birthday, did you know that?’
‘No, Señora.’
‘This evening, when it’s cooler, will you come with me? Always on his birthday, I carry a posy of flowers to his grave. Will you come with me?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Kate.
The little Catholic cemetery was a haven of quiet, the gravestones warmed by the evening sun, and flowers for the dead stirred a little in the light breeze. Kate was arm in arm with Katerina, who still walked in the graceful way Edward had thought so regal. Maria was in attendance a little way behind.
Kate saw the grave and the headstone.
SOMERS
EDWARD
and
That was all. It was incomplete. It was awaiting Katerina. Kate felt the anguish of sensitive youth, for she knew Katerina Pyotrovna was ready to lie beside him. That was what her dreams were all about. Kate had never known such love as Katerina Pyotrovna had had for all the years of her life. And because of her son and daughter, and her grandchildren, she still had so much to live for. But she was ready to leave them, to be where Edward was, and perhaps Celeste too.
Katerina saw the anguish plain on the girl’s expressive face.
‘Kate? You are sad? That is not for you, child – I am so sorry, I did not want you to be sad. It’s his birthday, when I come to give him my love.’
‘Señora,’ said Kate, ‘I believe in God, I believe in love.’
‘Then you’ll be cherished, my child,’ said Katerina, and stooped to set the posy of flowers in the stone pot. Kate saw the photograph of Edward in the graveside frame. She recognized it. She had, during these last few afternoons, been shown other photographs of him. Here, in its frame, was one taken of him sitting on the garden patio. It showed him a lean man, and still young, really, with thick hair and a widow’s peak, and a smile on his face, which was a little lined but not ravaged. Kate liked his mouth and his eyes. There was faded ink across the photograph.
August, 1931, at home.
‘There, my darling,’ said Katerina and slowly straightened. Kate filled the pot from the little watering can, and the posy of flowers drew up the moisture and grew bright. She stood with Katerina for a few minutes, and then Katerina said, quite clearly, ‘They are here, they are both here, can’t you feel them, Kate?’
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